


the heart is a lonely hunter

by velvetcrowbars



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, M/M, Oikawa is a mess and Iwaizumi really really loves him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-06
Updated: 2014-09-06
Packaged: 2018-02-15 23:22:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2247213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/velvetcrowbars/pseuds/velvetcrowbars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><blockquote>
  <p>Oikawa Tooru is a living inconsistency kept together by things they've long forgotten and Iwaizumi Hajime no longer believes in miracles.</p>
</blockquote>
            </blockquote>





	the heart is a lonely hunter

**Author's Note:**

> partially heavily inspired by a prompt from tumblr and partially from my own lack of control when writing unhappy things. 
> 
> (special shoutout to heidi for our matching obsession and for her neverending tolerance for my complaining you are incredible in every single way love you!)

_(i'm derailing)_

 

 

Iwaizumi Hajime was never one to be optimistic, at twenty-three and living a contradiction, there is nothing to be optimistic about. Twenty-three and sturdy with nothing but skin that doesn't fit quite right and a business card with a company name he doesn't care about stuffed in a briefcase jumbled under month old reports and half sharpened pencils. Sturdy and still unsure of where to hang pictures on the empty walls of apartment 18, unsure of whether the pressure building in his temples is a sign of meningitis or exhaustion. The days are a delicate balance between monotonous phone calls and quiet insanity between lunch breaks, caught staring outside the window through the blinds and down into the empty trees like they might hold the answers to all his questions. They don't, he knows. Trees don't speak.

 

Neither does Oikawa Tooru.

 

Bored at parties. Bored everywhere. Slip an ambien to pretend he doesn't exist for 8 hours, dream up conversations that will never happen because these are what his dreams are made of now; unattainable and slightly broken things that curl around his chest and kiss his eyelids. Wake up, unsure of whether it's 11 in the morning or 11 at night on a Sunday when the world is still asleep regardless of the time. Chug orange juice from the bottle and pretend to not remember who is waiting for him down the street on the seventh story level of the building filled with men who never go outside anymore and children who tug on their sleeves to hide the scars crosscrossing across their arms like violent prayers.

 

Oikawa Tooru is a picture, framed and unchangeable with bruised knuckles and a heart that falls slightly short of something with actual feelings. Delicate looking fingers that pick around nearly bleeding clots and a sealed mouth that only opens to take in oxygen and sips of coffee with too much cream and sugar. Blinds to the window always shut and eyes never closed with a certain stillness that doesn't belong to people who laugh like there is no tomorrow and are always the first to take a picture, all toothy grins and arms slung around shoulders.

 

But then again, Iwaizumi isn't sure anymore whether that person existed in the first place.

 

The nurses are entranced by him, the mysterious half boy who never shows his full smile and eyes upturned in a coy look when they enter, hair always slightly unruly and hands still soft and warm, arms pale and perfect besides the mark of the i.v. needles and picc lines that trail behind him like clear ribbons. He emanates this undeniable feeling of tragedy; melancholy and secret, something that only the other boy who comes and goes on a daily basis into his room could possibly know about as if he, by spending the few hours from 6 to 10 in the evening barricaded inside, becomes the key to unlocking the lips of the heart-wrenching patient who never utters a word.

 

Iwaizumi hates it. Those assumptions. It’s another one of the phenomena that he has never been able to understand about Oikawa and even more so now. How girls could be enchanted even by the mere shadow of him, let alone Oikawa at full-blown idiocy, was beyond Iwaizumi’s comprehension.

 

The rehab floor nestled right between the ICU and operating rooms had become his half way home that wasn't really home at all. It's the middle point between the office building where he part times for extra money and the apartment, conveniently placed so that there is no choice, his feet make the automatic decision for him and stroll through the sliding doors into the smell of antiseptic depression and frozen meals without his own conviction. Not that he wouldn't go anyway. It's simply easier this way, there is no thought or rhyme and reason to his actions, they are executed and emotionless. It's better that way, he assumes. He tries not to think about it too much.

 

_"Talk to him. Never stop talking to him."_

He enters without knocking, not particularly caring what is going on inside the room when he comes in. Because there are only three possible options.

one - He is sitting up in bed, back straight and legs slightly tangled with the sheets, a mug of steaming tea in his hands along with a tray of food that remains mostly untouched besides the dessert. He would always eat the dessert.

two - Someone helped him move to the chair by the single window, elbow resting on the sill and gaze too far gone into the distance; this is when Iwaizumi knows there will be no progress. Not that there really is on any day if he choses to think so, but he likes to believe some days are better than others sometimes.

three - He's asleep, curled into his side and breathing deeply with his hands balled up into loose fists, eyebrows lacking the constant crease that has worn into his forehead during waking hours. This is always the best option. Asleep, Iwaizumi can act like Oikawa was only admitted for an upset stomach, that he would wake up and poke at Iwaizumi’s cheeks, asking what he was so worried with that signature smirk and tilt of his head.

 

It's a ridiculous fantasy, one of the few he still allows himself to have before rubbing his face in his hands until it hurts.

 

_"The best thing you can do is have hope."_

Today it's option one. Not as good as three but a hell of a lot better than two. This time Oikawa is staring absently down at his hands, clutching at the ceramic mug patterned with blue and green plaid, a small addition from home that Iwaizumi had brought from the apartment in the beginning, more to keep himself from seeing the dusty thing on the shelf everyday, unused, a stab in the neck and a punch in the gut. Maybe it was selfish but he didn't need that. He didn't need to think about it anymore.

 

"What'd they give you today?"

 

Whenever it's option one, this is always how he starts the conversation. Conversation being a loose word.

 

Oikawa jumps slightly, as if he hadn't noticed Iwaizumi had entered the room at all. This is also typical. It had been almost four months, 98 days if Iwaizumi really felt like counting, four months of holding his own hand so hard the crescent fingernail marks remained ingrained in his skin the following morning when they found the other side of the bed cold. Four months of unchanging, relentless throbbing in his chest that wouldn't go away not matter how much aspirin he choked down and swigs of beer he chased them down with.

Tilting the mug down a little, Iwaizumi glances down into it. Chamomile, mostly a full cup and obviously half cold already.

 

"Having trouble sleeping again?"

 

A single nod, then two; his hair flopping into his eyes with the weight of it. It had gotten long, curling at the base of his neck and falling haphazardly across his face, still bouncy and soft like when they were kids.

 

"You should tell me stuff like that, idiot."

 

He reached up and pushed the too long bangs out of his eyes, Oikawa half smiled half sighed, catching Iwaizumi's hand for only a moment before letting go again, as if rethinking the decision almost immediately.

 

_"Do not run away. Do not leave him."_

Oikawa is a single moment captured perfectly in time, still as obnoxious and bursting with a passion innate to any other, a certain kind of sadness that grows in his bones and lips chapped with rips and crimson bloodstains that leave marks on all they touch. But he is also the wilted branches of the cherry trees in autumn and the neglected cracks in the sidewalk, half fulfilled promises and twisting ends of untied knots. There is nothing beautiful or entrancing about it. It's pathetic and ridiculous and stupid, the state of Oikawa Tooru. 

 

Iwaizumi feels a lump the size of a baseball rise in his throat. Stuff it down, close the lid, shut the curtain so he won't see the desolation that sticks to his ribs and clenches around his lungs.

 

"You need a haircut."

 

 

_(find me in the shallows)_

 

 

Actions speak louder than words.

A picture is worth a thousand.

Silence is the loudest scream.

Bullshit.

 

“How do you keep winning at this?”

 

Today is a good day. A very good day. The leaves have started to turn red and yellow and cover the sidewalks like a patchwork quilt. The mug was drained empty of hot chocolate, get well holiday cards with the envelops ripped open wide lay in heaps on the table, signed in various pens and pencils and colors, some names Iwaizumi doesn't even recognize. When he walked in today Oikawa didn't stare blank and pale at the wall or at his lap but turned his gaze, eyebrows raised and sweater paws half in the air like he was somehow still shocked to see him there for the hundredth day in a row. There is no usual chasm in his eyes today, gone is the emptiness that made his own stare falter in it’s presence and send a droplet of uneasiness down his spine. Now there’s a full hand of cards between them and Oikawa with his cunning and charisma as sharp as ever, miraculously, never fails to lose at a hand of rummy.

They almost smile. Almost.

 

Yes, a good day. Few and far between but still good.

 

It almost makes it worse. On days like this it feels like things may actually be improving when they are in fact plummeting deeper down into the bottomless pit. Every day that passes without a word exchanged between them is another night that Iwaizumi goes home, chilled and stomach aching, to endless hours of watching the small red numbers tick by until the sun rises and he knows it was another sleepless night. A slash across any number of nights trying not to see the bottles of cologne that don't belong to him lined up on the bathroom shelf, of him pretending that the single worn sweatshirt he can find does belong to him; that he isn't clinging to the remnants of a person who may already be gone.

 

It’s days like these that make him think maybe he isn't gone.

 

But its a ghost of a hope. The small candle that is lit can be easily snuffed out by the slightest of touches when he comes back the same time on the following day and finds option two: smothering and hollow, enough to make him almost cry. Almost.

 

_“Do not run, do not leave him.”_

“Hey, Oikawa.”

 

Even he knows it sounds forced. Oikawa must know it sounds forced. Unless he isn't listening. Most of the time, for his own sake even, Iwaizumi hopes he won't be.

 

He pulls his chair, usually positioned bedside, across the room to the window, attempting to make a big show by sighing loudly and making exaggerated sounds of labor and aggravation.

 

Nothing. No surprise there.

 

But he knows what to do now for option two. Four months of watching the vacant stare he found something hidden under the deeper layers of those almond colored eyes: fear. He scooted right up next to the chair Oikawa was lying in, practically lifeless. His chin resting precariously on his elbow looking more ashen than golden, the last rays of the sun shining directly on his face but there was no end to his scrutiny at it.

 

This, this was a bad day.

 

Carefully, like bones made of glass and soul barely held in place, he runs his hands along the ridges of Oikawa’s spine, slowly, just to let him know he’s there. The reaction won't register on his face but Iwaizumi feels him stir, someplace buried deep inside him is the part that sees, the part that understands. He takes his time getting to know each vertebrae and notch, tangling his fingers in the hair and the top of his neck and grazing over the cleft at the bottom of his spine.

 

“Tooru.” he says this time.

 

Eyes sluggishly turn in his direction. He feels his heart crack in half a little more.

 

“Hey,” it’s hardly there this time because the lump is back in his throat and it’s threatening to actually choke him this time. He notices that the shirt is a new one, one of the matching sweaters that Oikawa had bought them both for christmas one year, this one red and Iwaizumi’s green. They're ugly and scratchy and uncomfortable, he had insisted on taking them back but Oikawa had stood firm in his resolve to wear them every december 25th. He wasn't sure why he had brought that one to the hospital. Probably the selfishness again. Memories are the enemy, memories dig under his skin and make his eyes water and blood freeze. He hates that.

 

Then it hits him.

 

“You took a bath today?”

 

The question strikes a nerve because Oikawa slowly bows his head and then he’s reaching out with both arms in Iwaizumi’s direction, shaking almost unperceivable as they wrap around his neck, barely tightening as they lie still. He buries his face in Iwaizumi’s shirt collar, and all he can think to do in that moment is hold on. Hold on and do not let go. His hands are raveled up in that dumb christmas sweater, searching for a space to grab onto, anything, that won't let him slip away. They smooth out Oikawa’s hair and circle so tightly he can feel ribs under his fingertips. He wants to fold up the moment and keep it in his pocket, but life is not an instant polaroid camera and they are not something precious kept in heart shaped lockets or behind bulletproof cases.

 

“It’s okay, you know that right?”

 

He doesn't expect a response anymore.

 

 

_(my youth has stained our sheets)_

 

 

It's August. He knows by the sweat sticking to his forehead and the sun beating down relentlessly even as it set with the cicadas running their chorus along the sidewalks. There's a gentle breeze that blows against their backs, a mockingbird that chirps high up in the branches past sight. The air is warm and temperate, cuddled against their skin like a welcome friend. It’s easy, comfortable, satisfying.

He knows what today is. It's August 14th.

He knows how all of this will go.

 

“Oikawa you sure are amazing,”

 

“Iwaizumi too, both of you-”

 

“I can't believe you two just graduated college.”

 

“To make it on the national team this fast, it’s incredible!”

 

“Totally in sync, y’know, I wonder how they do it-”

 

Their words echo and bounce around his skull, crashing and tumbling through his throat and filling up his lungs like saltwater. The scuff of sneakers on pavement, words drawled under influence of aching muscles and beads of perspiration under jacket sleeves. Oikawa had laughed like a song and smiled like a hurricane. New teammates with still unfamiliar faces and warbling voices ring in his ears when they laugh as something probably idiotic and falsely prideful comes pouring out of Oikawa’s mouth. It falls and pools around his feet like honey and they drink it like it’s liquor.

A smooth talker, per the usual. He was a magnet that people couldn't resist, a star that burned so bright and so fast it was nearly gone by the time they reached the center, too late to turn around and go back. He’s joking and massaging the inside of Iwaizumi’s hand behind their backs and out of sight, smoothing his thumb over the tendons and veins like he wants to memorize them just by touch.

 

Ah, he remembers this. He had wanted to smack it away because they were in public and it was hot but couldn't bring himself to do it. Maybe a part of him knew, like the primal instinct that told the horses and birds a storm was coming, something buried deep that was telling him to run while he still had the strength.

 

The mockingbird stops singing it’s tune in an instant; a raven takes its place, glistening wings shining under the last rays of sunlight. It always begins this way, a quiet sense of foreboding clenching up around the air he breathes and sucking out the oxygen. The ground starts to wobble under his feet, mirrors refracting and collapsing in on one another. The touch of his fingers disappears in a blast of cold air.

 

“You go on ahead, Iwa-chan.”

 

No, wait. Wait-

 

“I have an errand to run, I'll see you tonight!”

 

No, why?

 

Oikawa has his back turned, drifting away towards the edge, an endless expansion of white that swallows up everything it comes in contact with. Iwaizumi shuts his eyes, wills it to end. Wills himself to stop the questioning from tearing apart what remains of his conscience, rip apart the words that won't stop hammering into his lips and hanging there waiting their execution.

 

_“Why didn't I go with him?”_

 

He squeezes his eyes and opens them to wait for the inevitable sound of flesh against metal, the mixture of cicada screams, a pulse pounding in his ears, the thud of something heavy against the concrete. Oikawa turns right before the blankness of the canvas swallows him up, and smiles, the blood starting to leak from his nose and eyes and mouth.  

 

_“Why did I let him go?”_

 

The incredulousness of it all is suffocating. It was such a simple question but there was no answer no matter how many times he turned the pages, expecting for the story to have some moral or tell-all ending that would give him something, anything as for instructions on how to keep going. But it never came. The pages stayed blank, the words ceased, and soon he can taste the warm metallic of iron in his mouth too, feel the red tears start to leak from his eyes.

 

The dream always ends the same way too. Cold sweat, covers thrown to the floor and tongue feeling fuzzy, an aching behind his eyes.  

 

Iwaizumi always wakes up screaming for him to run.

 

 

_(it’s different now)_

 

 

There is a fine line between existing and living.

Those who exist, museums of memories tucked behind hooded eyes and tongues tied up in pretty bows, lean on those who are alive.

Those who are alive thrive off of moon dust in their lungs and stars on their eyelashes, vivid and rolling, trepid and falling lips colored with hot nights and cold mornings.

Existing is difficult, living is easy.

 

Oikawa was so alive. He had reveled in it more than anyone else, craving the attention and loving the storms like they were his own creation, and most of the time they were. He breathed lead and exhaled gold like it was what he was made of, and people stared, mesmerized. Personally, it annoyed the hell out of him because Oikawa had the nasty habit of self-destruction preset in his DNA and Iwaizumi was the designated clean up crew, every single time.

 

Iwaizumi isn't sure which category he himself falls into anymore, maybe somewhere in between, a limbo that had swallowed him along with the last words Oikawa spoke. He can’t even remember what they were anymore, buried underneath the 3 A.Ms outside the operating room and pale complexions against paler bed sheets.

 

“The manager called. She says hi. Hopes you feel better.”

 

Oikawa just settles deeper into the couch, his toes curling in his thick socks and mouth hidden behind drawn up knees. The feeling of him being in apartment 18 is still a foreign one, like leaving for a trip and feeling like he had forgotten something when it was in fact in his hands the entire time. They had become the exact people they swore they would never become, rummaging for answers in the pages of a book they had long forgotten about.

 

_I’m perfectly fine Iwa-chan, isn't it obvious?_

 

He had gotten in the habit of letting words resonate in the vacant parts of his mind. He knew he was talking to himself but that didn't really matter anymore. He had gone past the point of caring, probably having dropped it somewhere on the sidewalk and letting it roll away into the gutter.

 

_“You should go home.”_

 

Scrawled sloppily on a pale notebook page splotched with ink put on display between two hands, face ducked behind the pad and paper trembling. He still isn't sure where Oikawa had gotten it from, there one second and gone the next, that pad of paper had yet to make another appearance. Whether it was because he was afraid to make any semblance of words come into this world from his own thoughts or didn’t have it anymore, Iwaizumi couldn't care less. That note came three days before and the doctor had said, with hands clasped in a pleased gesture and eyes glistening with what he wanted to believe was true emotion: “He has clearance to check out tomorrow”. Pause for effect. “He will have to continue physical therapy, but he will walk again on his own very soon, I know it.”

 

The sticky optimism in her words was palpable. It made him nauseous.

 

When he had said his reply to Oikawa's notepad scribble, there was a delicate bewilderment that had taken over, chewing on Iwaizumi's words and seeing how they tasted. But the answer was so simple. Oikawa is not stupid, he would figure it out eventually.

 

“Home is wherever you are, dumbass.”

 

 

_(wait for me to degrade before you go)_

 

 

It started out as an itch, a minor annoyance that he could ignore and push through without any real problems. The words would scratch at the back of his throat whenever the room filled up with quiet, the click of the small clock kept on the kitchen counter the only noise in the entire apartment. The t.v. and heater are both on, one of them spewing nonsense on a drama show neither of them really care about and the other stuttering to life every few minutes in an attempt to keep the tiny rooms warm. Even still with these noises, it feels like sludge is filling up his ears and throat with how silent it is, Oikawa’s legs stretched out across his lap and eyes still barely open as the clock keeps ticking to almost eleven o'clock. The itch is nearly unbearable and most of the time he can control it, lock it away, pretend it’s not there. But tonight its different and Iwaizumi isn't sure whether it’s the shot of whiskey he had after a particularly tough phone call with his parents or the way Oikawa looked at him when he came home from the grocery store, looked at him like he was the only person in the entire planet who mattered along the spectrum of forever. Maybe he’s just tired. Maybe he doesn't want to control it anymore.

 

“Hey,” he says, keeping his eyes on the flicking images from the television. He more senses than sees Oikawa turn his gaze to him, eyes open a little more now and mouth parted in a question mark.

 

“Why don't you talk anymore?”

 

The cold that takes over Oikawa’s stare is almost immediate, but maybe cold isn't the right word for it. Blankness, empty, maybe more accurate. But after seeing that face for almost twenty years Iwaizumi knows how to read it and there’s definitely something more there - is he angry? sad? unwilling? That's the thing about words, something changes when someone stops saying them. It becomes even more difficult to detect the algorithm that unlocks their thoughts. 

 

He himself of course knows the answer already. Mute-by-choice is a side effect of trauma, albeit a rather rare one; it’s also one that patients rarely emerge unscathed from.

 

“You don't have to tell me or anything.” the sarcasm drips from his voice, “I just wanted to ask is all. For socializing sake.”

 

_Liar._

He doesn't know why he keeps pushing on. It’s like once the words are released there isn't anything else to stop them.

“Do you like the food I make? Is the bed uncomfortable? Is the water too cold in the shower? How do your legs feel? Do you ever think you'll play again? Do you even want to play again? Does it bother you that I don't play anymore? Are you happy?”

 

The frustration grows like a vine, wrapping around his neck and making it harder to breathe, the questions coming faster than even someone who did speak could answer.

 

“Just tell me, goddamnit it, why don't you just tell me. I'm so sick of guessing whatever the hell you're thinking so why can't you just say _something_."

 

Oikawa retreats back into the couch cushions. His eyes are closed now, but the restlessness and slight tremble can be felt through the thin material. Iwaizumi clenches his fist in an attempt to keep from punching his face, or his own face for that matter. The shutdown was visible, iron padlocks and walls topped with barbed wire to keep him away.

 

“Whatever.” more to himself than to Oikawa, relaxing the muscles in his hand, ignoring the fact that his knuckles are completely white.

 

And so Iwaizumi clamps his mouth shut and draws a line where his tongue should be. Do not cross, dangerous, crime scene investigation.

 

He remembers when Oikawa had cried so much after their last Winter Cup that his voice went hoarse and he had sucked on lemon drops for a week straight trying to get it back.

 

 

_(eyes burnt out, flames are gone)_

 

 

_Damn, I still got it don’t I?_

The snip of the scissors almost echoes in the small apartment. White light filters through the balcony window, Iwaizumi wears Oikawa’s old sweatshirt and he thinks Oikawa notices but doesn't say anything.

 

Of course not.

 

He looks good with long hair, Oikawa. It still stays slightly curled and soft between his fingers, reminding Iwaizumi of the days they spent lounging in the sun on his parent’s deck, Oikawa’s head in his lap and mouth tasting like cold watermelon. It feels hazy, this memory from when practices were still too hard and they didn't have to paint acrylic smiles on their faces with bright yellows and blues. It’s almost as if it never happened, that it couldn't possible have happened. It feels like his body’s starting to fill up with water, his soul stamped down to the soul of his shoes and lungs pounded into his back.

 

He takes it back. Oikawa looks awful with long hair.  

 

_Don't you dare mess this up, I have a reputation to uphold, Iwa-chan._

 

He works away at the trim near the base of his neck, watching as the tiny snippets fall and nearly disappear into the blue towel laid out between them, a barrier of the flimsiest kind. But he can’t cross it. Can’t even seem to touch it, let alone reach through it and message the words out of Oikawa’s vocal chords.

 

“Yeah, yeah I got it.”

 

He isn't talking to himself, probably, he figures or hopes, maybe. Oikawa isn't one to stay silent even when he won’t speak, he can tell. Inspecting his work, he brushes the stray hairs from the thin long sleeved shirt Oikawa wears, shoulder blades jutting and vertebrates countable. He gathers up the towel, seeing out of the corner of his eye the so-so symbol, hand tilted sideways and eyes bordering somewhere on playful from a slender thumb and head tilting in the mirror reflection. Iwaizumi shoots back his best middle finger and scrunched eyebrows, just for authenticity.

 

 

_(well i have brittle bones it seems)_

 

 

Curling up next to him in bed is automatic, second nature. There is a pull between them, slowly nudging them together under the blankets but they both push away because it's still too soon, the wound is still too fresh to be licked clean just yet. They don't touch, only fingerprints barely ghosting between held breaths and tumbling stomachs. He tentatively strokes his jawbone, Oikawa gently traces the veins on his neck. It’s terrifying, being so close after being so far removed for what seemed like an eternity. Like being brand new and getting to know one another all over again, nerves frayed and over sensitive, pulses quickened and throats raw.

 

A fingertip tracing circles over his chest: _Are you awake?_

 

“Yeah, you woke me up.” with the twist of a stray lock of brown hair.

 

 _Shut up, I know you were awake already, I never see you sleep_ : a thumb brushing against his lips.

 

His hand finds the jut of a hipbone under the covers, warm, “I’m only awake because you are, stupid.”

 

Oikawa buries his face against his collarbone, breath like water vapor and nose cold:  _Not my fault I can't sleep y’know._

“I know.”

 

He had gotten so used to the isolation and desolate feel that came with the certain emptiness that occupied him without a piece of warmth to fill it. Communicating was never their strong suit, preferring to let their bodies do the talking and mouths staying shut because when they did try to communicate it always came out in fragments and not anything like they intended. But this was a new form of speaking, lead by touches and way of feel not way of voice and words. They aren’t any better at it than actual talking honestly, but it’s better than nothing at all.

 

The walls of apartment 18 are still completely plain, and half of him wishes it would stay this way forever; wiped clean and sterile so that he won't have to touch it anymore than he has to. It was temporary, only for the sake of convenience that they lived here in this not home; they were going to have everything. Both had been drafted to the national team out of college, two youngsters that everyone had seen coming. The world was dangling on their fingers and all they had to do was stretch out and grab it. It had taken so long but it was finally there, so in reach they could taste it, the world: it was salty and rich and made for the two of them alone.

 

Iwaizumi sometimes wonders how drunk that driver was when it was only 8 o'clock at night on a Thursday.

 

The first icy wind falls and the world secedes into a sky of sleet gray and scarves worn like nooses around their necks. Iwaizumi clenches his fists harder and Oikawa curls tighter around his chest, and he knows they both only feel two things now: desperation and all encompassing, deafening, silence that is only found at the bottom of wells or tucked inside the deepest corners of people’s minds.

 

 

_(wide-eyed like we're in a crime scene)_

 

 

Its over. Iwaizumi knows its over. That it has been over for a while.

He can’t find the thread of reason that had kept him held in place anymore, the handcuffs on his wrists disappeared. Whether it’s this shift that triggers a landslide or the landslide that makes them panic and pull the trigger, Iwaizumi comes to realize there was never any other outcome. He had heard of caretakers cracking under pressure, abandoning their loved ones in the hands of someone else, casting them aside to specialty nurses or stretched smiles and pseudo-laughter that in the end, brings things to an end even faster.

 

But they aren't like that. The thought of leaving Oikawa was never a present thought in his brain. He just wanted to wake up, please god let him wake up from this neverending dream. The nightmare that never ceases to keep growing from one day to the next, indestructible and without any single pinpoint of origin.

 

Iwaizumi is startled awake by Oikawa wrenching his guts out into the blankets for the fourth time in a week.

 

He doesn't think before running to the bathroom, slamming the dials on the tub and trying not to listen to the pants and knotting of muscles coming from the room a single wall away. He swallows the bile in his throat and it burns, scalding his senses as he shoves his arms under Oikawa’s knees and arms, half running in panic and half in fear back to the tub. The embarrassment is nonexistent as he strips both of their clothes off, smelling like sweat and old green tea, not bothering to check the temperature of the water before plunging in. It’s boiling, and he stifles a yelp but hurriedly begins scrubbing the soap across Oikawa’s chest and shoulders. There’s drops of blood that expand like liquid crystal in the water. They both knew the medication might make Oikawa sick, but a better warning system might've been nice.

 

Oikawa’s crying and he thinks he may be crying too, unsure of whether the hot water on his face is bathwater or tears. His eyes sting and the bathtub is too small for the two of them at one time so he gets out and washes Oikawa’s hair and rinses out his mouth with a cup of cold water, trying not to mind how freezing the air is outside and the way his legs are starting to shake. Oikawa hardly moves unless prompted, his brain probably having already shut off. Shut off, shut him out, shut away the world. All of the above most likely. Iwaizumi throws his own pants back on, drying and dressing Oikawa in new clothes from the laundry room and brushing his teeth with the mint toothpaste they both use.

 

He goes back, strips the bed without breathing and throws them in the laundry after soaking in warm water. The routine is familiar and simple now, the routine that he never wanted to become a routine. Each time he passes through the doorway of the bathroom he can see out of the corner of his eye a look of reliance and necessity. The break in his heart widens but he shoves it back together the best he can as he pulls the old Aobajousai sweatshirt over his head.

 

Oikawa lets Iwaizumi carry him to the couch, grabbing a spare blanket and cocooning him in it the best he can without feeling like he might break into a hundred pieces. Iwaizumi isn't sure if he can put that many jagged edges back together again, maybe once, but not again. He’s tired of bandaging his fingers and kissing his own wounds better. The fact that things had in fact, fallen apart, was undeniable.

 

He still holds Oikawa’s hand until he falls asleep.

 

 

_(push me out to sea / in the little boat that you made out of the evergreen)_

 

 

He hates Oikawa’s voice. Or hated, past tense.

 

Annoying, grating, self-confident and high strung. Always piping up when he least wanted it to, making a silky remark or obtuse comment on whatever was going on. It purred to the girls in the stands and growled at the other side of the net, stuttered in his throat when there were tears on his cheekbones. It was always there, a constant reminder in this life that they were stuck together, that they would continue to be stuck together whether Iwaizumi liked it or not. It was not a matter of like or want, it existed along with the cheesy looks and gentle snore and cowlicked hair that came with Oikawa himself.

 

Sometimes he catches Oikawa staring, mouth half open like the words are about to come out and assault his ears again like they used to. But nothing ever comes, nothing ever happens. They remain in the unsettling silence sipping tea and waiting for the time to pass a little faster, both minds winding themselves up and creating thoughts based on the empty air filling the room. He’s afraid to speak, afraid to breathe, afraid to touch him sometimes. Tentative hand reaching out and searching for a matching pair, thumb running over bones and muscles trying to scrub away the cold that has settled over them.

 

This is usually their state together; Iwaizumi reads a book or fills out paperwork at the table while Oikawa lays in the loveseat or on the floor at his side with legs - which have begun to gain some true control again -  coiled up and sleeve just peeking out of the blanket, their hands intertwined in this manner. Together but separate. Intimately unfamiliar like strangers that happen to brush when getting off the train.  

 

“Are you ready for dinner?”

 

“Have you changed clothes yet?”

 

“Tea or coffee?”

 

“I’m going to work for a few hours, I'll be back for lunch.”

 

“Don’t forget to brush your teeth.”

 

Almost all yes/no answer boxes. All left blank. No check marks made in either. They hang in above their heads, slowly filling up the space between them until there is almost nothing left. Unanswered questionnaires used to be Oikawa’s specialty, constantly drilling them into Iwaizumi’s head between practices, in the locker room, the dorm room they had shared as freshmen.

 

“Iwa-chan, what do you want for dinner?”

 

“I bought you this shirt, it’s totally your style right?”

 

“I’m getting coffee, what about you Iwa-chan?”

 

“Can’t we practice longer, we don't need to eat lunch.”

 

“They must find my smile especially cute today, huh.”

 

A kick to the shins, slug to the arm, pinch of the nose. Usually something along the lines of a “Shut up, stupid.” muttered at minimum volume or a begrudging answer to a question. They bicker and tease and admire and he lost count of how many times he’s fallen in love with Oikawa Tooru in the past almost lifetime but he doesn’t really care to recall the number, it’s just another reminder.

 

A reminder of something that’s already lost. The reality of it has evaporated like rain into that summer evening, slipping through his fingers and floating into the sky and into their swollen lungs. To say that he didn't miss it wouldn't exactly be the truth, but it is also not entirely a lie either. Something cannot be seen as important until it’s already gone, and the disappearance of Oikawa’s voice was simply the final straw to the plethora of things Iwaizumi wished he could redo all over again.

 

 

_(i bite my tongue and i torch my dreams)_

 

 

The park bench is freezing even through two layers of pants making his teeth gradually begin to chatter and leg to shake with pent up energy. His breath pools in the frigid air, tumbling to the ground in waves that disappear before they reach his feet.

 

He can hardly stand it, the quiet. Everyone complains about how noisy and bustling the cities are, how large families only breed dissonance and loud people are disturbances before they even open their mouths, just their presence is enough to make people brace themselves for the impact of sound. No one complains about silence.

 

Silence is golden.

 

Statues don't talk, but the dead don't either.

 

The first snow had been the night before, covering the entire world in a sheet of impure white. Just as the light of the morning was seeping through the windows Oikawa had shaken his shoulder with his palm, eyes wide and nearly sparkling with the reflection of the sunrise against the new clean color of the landscape outside. It sounded like there were words that were on the cusp of his tongue, wanting to escape and roll into Iwaizumi’s ears. Of course, the only sound was that of the heater creaking to life and small songbirds perched somewhere he couldn't see.

 

He had groaned and rolled back over, wanting to retreat back into his head for as long as possible.

 

Oikawa is draped on the bench beside him, huddling in the thick comforter from their bed even out here in the still falling snow. He wouldn't let go of it as he dragged Iwaizumi out of bed and into the still dark dawn that was approaching. They hadn't exchanged any communication. That had started to change, he had quit talking and Oikawa had quit trying to answer.

 

He's losing it. His sanity, probably. But he’s only about 70% sure about that.

 

The entire world seems to still be sleeping, hushed by the eerie snowfall and footprint less white ground. This park is only a five minute walk from their house, usually there are children. But not now. He feels like everyone has just up and disappeared. They are the only two people left on this entire planet, two lost pieces of a single soul.

 

"Oikawa."

 

It's the first word out of his mouth that morning, his voice creaky sounding and gruff. Oikawa shifts his head slightly in his direction, giving no other indication at all that he heard him.

 

"What the hell are we doing? It's freezing out here."

 

Oikawa just opens up the blanket a little and settles it around Iwaizumi's shoulders, but it's still too small to provide any real source of warmth. His eyes stay glued to the ground, trained on something that maybe Iwaizumi can't see or something that isn't there at all; a memory, a time, a place buried in Oikawa's head. The feeling crashes over him suddenly like a wave, pounding against his skull and making his teeth clack together even harder. He forces his feet to move, his aching bones to stand up against his will.

 

"You know if you can out here to freeze to death then fine, be my guest."

 

_Why do you stay?_

Tiny symmetrical snowflakes landing and dissolving into white lined paper. An interruption in the flow, a jab to the temple.

 

_Iwa-chan, why are you still here?_

His knees give out just as quickly as he stood up, and he sinks into the now thicker layer of snow. It's so cold it burns through his thin pajama pants but the strength that was in him moments ago has disappeared but he can't bring himself to think about it.

 

_You quit volleyball for me. Why would you do that? Are you really that stupid?_

It feels as if someone has stuffed cotton in his ears, there’s only the deafness that comes with the world outside when snow is falling in the middle of the night, like every noise has been sucked out of the atmosphere.

 

_I want you to leave. I can't stand it. Please._

The handwriting is curved and slanted in odd directions, almost shakily written in a blue pen that he usually accidentally brings home from the office. He keeps telling himself to stop taking the office pens, or eventually he won't have anything to write with at work.  

 

_I don't want to watch you suffer anymore, Iwa-chan. I'll figure this out on my own. I don't need you._

He feels something in him start to collapse. The structure he had wanted to protect so badly was going to be destroyed, and there was nothing he could do about it now. It’s too late to move or run for cover, the storm is already here and the center is no where in sight. The only difference with this one compared to the others is he doesn't know how to survive it.

 

_I need you to be happy, Iwa-chan. That's why you have to leave. Don't cry, you always had an ugly crying face. Did you know that?_

The cold seems to be seeping into every pore in his body, whiting out his senses and turning him blank. There's nothing left there now inside of him, an untouched canvas. And then he knows. It clicks. The final piece of scaffolding holding the thing in his chest together self-destructs. So he laughs. He laughs until his stomach hurts and there are tears in the corners of his eyes because it's actually _laughable_ how stupid this was. He looks back up to find Oikawa staring, looking maybe a little indignant and a lot like a wounded bird, broken wings and fragile hollow bones.

He still holds the pad of paper shakily, like a bomb about to explode and destroy them both. But Iwaizumi doesn't care about that anymore, taking Oikawa's face between his hands and running his thumb along his jawline in slow, rhythmic movements. 

 

"Oikawa."

 

_Do you still love me? Why would you ever love me?_

 

He takes a deep breath, and opens the lid on the jar inside himself. He knows what to do now.

 

_I hate this. I hate you. I hate you the most._

_Please don't leave me._

 

 

_(things cannot be reversed)_

 

 

"Oikawa Tooru. Born on July twentieth. Twenty three years old. Cancer. One hundred and eighty three centimeters tall. I hate you. I hate your stupid laugh and the dumb clothes you wear. I hate the way you talk about yourself and how nothing is ever good enough for you. You're a bed hog. You cry too much and too easily. I hate the way you look at me like I'm the one who strung the whole universe because I know I didn't and it's a false sense of accomplishment to say the least because I want to be that person for you and I can't. But I love the freckle on the back of your neck that I guarantee you've never seen before. I love how you hum when you're happy and smile when you're sad.  I love the way your hair looks when it's wet. When you're embarrassed your nose turns red and when you're in love you get really quiet like that one time at training camp in middle school when you didn’t speak to me for a few days. That took forever to figure out no thanks to you. The last time I heard your voice was one hundred and forty five days ago. I love your voice when you wake up in the morning. Right now, you're scared, and I know this because I know you like I know myself. And I am too, _god_ , I'm so scared. Sometimes I get so scared I can't breathe right and that's fucking terrifying, can you imagine losing the most important thing in the world to you but never really losing it at the same time? But none of that stuff matters because you...you are the only _goddamn_ thing that simultaneously kills me and keeps me alive and I need you. I need you, Oikawa Tooru. Don't you dare run away from me. Because god knows if you do I'm not sure what'll be left of me, and I hate leaving other people to clean up my own messes. Do not run away. Do not leave. If you can't do it for me then do it for yourself. Because god knows you need me just as much as a need you and if there is one thing I know is true in this world it is that I can't live without you. And I know you can't live without me. No matter what happens up is up and down is down and life is still going to suck just as much whether I'm there or not. That is never going to change. I don't know anymore what's going to happen, but we never really have right? So shut up with this bullshit about leaving, about me wanting to leave. I missed out on that opportunity years ago and for that matter, so did you. So let's go home. Let's go home, Tooru."

 

 

_(my heart taken and resting on your heart)_

 

 

The sun rises. The sun sets. Rinse and repeat in the cycle that consists of 24 hours and 365 days to make up the years that are existence. There are voicemails left on his phone, filled with the words and letters and an accent that fits snug like a newly bought shirt. He always presses 9 to save them, tucking the strip of candids from the photo booth in the shopping center into his wallet and throwing away the leftover bottle of pills left in the space on his desk where the light falls every morning. Apartment 18 now sits empty; he never had to decide what to put on the walls or which pictures to tape to the fridge. It makes his shoulders feel lighter, being able to close the door with a click and not look back with only a last look at the neighbor’s cat perched on the railing. Moving day had come way faster than he had imagined, the new and unwashed sheets of a clean bed waiting at the other end of Miyagi prefecture.

 

Raising a hand that can mean hello or goodbye, he ducks out of the building, waiting for the moments spent inside to collapse along with the bricks and cement they are made of, but twelve steps away he gives up on that happening. He had realized it’s better to let dying things die on their own. We remember what we want to forget and forget what we want to remember. A chiasmus, he concludes, is kind of like the universe.

Training starts again soon. The absence from the team finally ground its way to a halt and the demand for returning began again. Spring approached, it’s arms just starting to extend through the gaps in the snow and take hold on the dirt and trees and plants. The sweater is itchy against his skin and soft against his heart.

That’s when a pair of hands reaching from behind cover his eyes, red mittens and smelling like orange blossoms and he’s frozen. Warm and familiar, sunrises and beginnings whispered in his ear. 

 

“Iwa-chan- "

 

Iwaizumi grabs the smile from his mouth before it spreads, saving it for when it counts. For when he debuts on the court again, when he can throw it into the hollow of his mouth between urgent kisses and try not to laugh at one of those ridiculous and corny jokes he has taken to saying. He needs that smile because there are only so many times he'll get to use it for him and everything is terrible sometimes because of the demon that tried to sew his shut lips but it’s okay. The world continues to spin around the sun and a million people are out there fighting and loving and laughing and crying and they are okay.

 

“Stupid Oikawa.”

 

They are okay.

 

After all, the world is a chiasmus; two clauses with reverse meanings placed together to create something more, and Oikawa Tooru can laugh again and it echoes through the gymnasium and in the small spaces left between them when the nights are long and the silence slinks in on little cat feet to try to wedge itself between them once again. Or the days where the mornings are still misty and they don't need to share words even without the repression of the quiet that once pervaded their veins and Iwaizumi can press his lips from Oikawa's neck to his thigh, soft noises and sweet nothings gentle against their skin.

It boggles his mind, and Iwaizumi wonders how hearing that voice can break and rebuild his bones together again and light the warmth in his chest on fire, that voice that has found it's lungs again and contains his whole universe bundled up with chaste kisses and not-so-broken-anymore smiles.

But that is a question for another day.

 

**Author's Note:**

> IF YOU MADE IT TO THE END NOTES BLESS YOUR SOUL 
> 
> the title is taken from a novel of the same title, being one of my favorite books and also featuring a mute character plus my lack of originality 
> 
> bury me in this ship
> 
> i have no (so many) regrets

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Ready To Lose (everything but you)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7645201) by [thetinyconstellation](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thetinyconstellation/pseuds/thetinyconstellation)




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